


Fight to Leave the Past Behind

by ilostmyshoe



Series: A Good Man is Hard to Be (aka Sam Wilson is a National Treasure) [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Trauma, pararescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 13:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1943259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilostmyshoe/pseuds/ilostmyshoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sure, Sam had nightmares, but everyone had nightmares. He was physically whole, financially solvent, and mentally stable. He had a job that he loved, helping his fellow vets with minimal interference from his supervisors. That was a lot more than most people could say.</p><p>He was fine.</p><p>Then he met Steve Rogers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fight to Leave the Past Behind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sholio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/gifts).



> Written for the Marvel POC Characters Fanwork Exchange.  
> Much like the movie, this work can be read as either gen or implied Sam/Steve, whichever you prefer.  
> Thank you to stars_inthe_sky for being a fabulous beta.

_The Pararescue Creed:_ _It is my duty as a Pararescueman to save lives and to aid the injured. I will be prepared at all times to perform my assigned duties quickly and efficiently, placing these duties before personal desires and comforts. These things I do, that others may live._

 

Sam Wilson wouldn’t say he had it all together. In fact, he doubted that anyone who’d seen the things he’d seen ever got themselves completely back together again.

But he was fine.

Sure, Sam had nightmares, but everyone had nightmares. He was physically whole, financially solvent, and mentally stable. He had a job that he loved, helping his fellow vets with minimal interference from his supervisors. That was a lot more than most people could say.

It wasn’t like the bad dreams came every night. And he’d been lucky enough to avoid the insomnia that plagued many of his fellow vets, thanks in part to his consistent evening routine:

– No caffeine after 5

– No food after 8

– Computer off by 9

– Read or listen to music from 9 to 9:30

– Check locks, brush teeth, and change into pajamas at 9:30

– Asleep by 10

Whenever the nightmares did wake him up—which was really only two, _maybe_ three nights a week—he’d learned that trying to fall back asleep was a lost cause. Instead, he’d get up and do paperwork for the V.A. until it was late enough to count as early. Then he went for a run.

When he ran, he was able to lose himself in the pounding of his feet on the pavement, the rasp of air in his lungs, the growing stitch in his side as he pushed himself to his limit and just a little bit beyond. Every ache and pain tied him to his body and to the present, until the past sank back into the haze of faded memory where it belonged.

*   *   *   *   *

The morning Sam met Steve Rogers was not a post-nightmare run, thank God. He’d had a good night’s sleep and was actually feeling pretty positive about life, the universe, and everything when he got lapped by America’s favorite super-soldier. When he collapsed under a tree, gasping for breath, he couldn’t help thinking how good it felt to push himself for totally angst-free reasons. He looked at Steve grinning down at him and swore it was like looking into the goddamn sun. He couldn’t have held back his own grin if he’d tried.

So, of course, the nightmares returned that night, worse than they’d been in years.

_The air burns in his lungs—hot and dry and tinged with smoke. Screams, explosions, and the rattle of gunfire drown out the sounds of his partner in the air behind him. His hands, slick with blood, scramble for a better hold on the man in his arms._

_Suddenly, he’s hit with debris from one of the blasts, feels something soft and wet splatter across his neck and legs. He grits his teeth and urges the wings to go faster—and faster still._

_If he goes fast enough, flies high enough, doesn’t look back—maybe they can all make it home in one piece._

_But the wound in his shoulder is throbbing, his arm is weakening, and his passenger is unforgiving dead weight. And no matter how fast or how far he flies, the fucking safe-zone stays just out of view._

_Finally, he gives in to temptation. He glances down and sees that he’s holding a desiccated corpse. It slowly turns its head back to look at him, and he’s faced with a gross mockery of Riley’s familiar grin, twisted and distorted by decay._

Sam woke up in a cold sweat. He hung his head between his knees and took a moment to pull himself together, vaguely proud that at least he hadn’t screamed. He’d woken up screaming every night for months after he returned home. Maybe he’d be okay . . . as long as he didn’t backslide that far.

*   *   *   *   *

The following nights were progressively better, and he was almost back to his personal version of normal when Steve unexpectedly dropped by the V.A. There were wry words and easy grins, and, in that moment, Sam felt like the best possible version of himself: confident and insightful and casually chatting up Captain fucking America. He wanted to hold onto that feeling forever. It lasted for most of the rest of the day, at least.

As the sun set, though, Sam couldn’t help remembering the nightmares after he’d first met Steve. For the first time in years, he considered breaking his evening routine _—_ ignoring his bed and just working straight through until morning. He’d gone for days without sleep when he was still in action, and he knew his limits. Skipping one night’s rest wouldn’t even come close to pushing them. He could just stay up, have a regular day tomorrow, and risk dealing with the nightmares another night.

In the end, he followed the usual routine, fighting his instincts every step of the way. He expected to lie awake for hours, but he fell almost immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep and didn’t wake until morning. It was just as well. Soon after that Steve showed up with Natasha in tow, and all of Sam’s routines were blown away.

*   *   *   *   *

Sam’s favorite thing about a crisis was that there was no time to think. There was time to strategize and organize and plan, sure, but no space for introspection or worry. As Steve fretted about pulling Sam into his mess, part of Sam wanted to grab him by the shoulders and demand to know how he, of all people, could so completely misinterpret Sam’s reaction. With Steve Sam had a team, had a mission, had people depending on him and the certainty that came with a just cause. It was something Sam never expected to find without sacrificing his hard-won self-determination. As they planned for battle he felt more relaxed, more comfortable, more at peace than he had in years.

Everything moved quickly: wings, Hydra, capture, escape, Nick Fury, three helicarriers, near-death experiences _—_ and, in the end, the good guys saved the day. There was never a chance to think about anything beyond planning their next move and making it happen.

But then there was the aftermath: Steve unconscious in a hospital bed, Sam at his side, and nothing to do except sit and wait.

And think.

Worrying about Steve kept Sam’s mind occupied for the first couple of hours, but then his thoughts inevitably started slipping back into the past.

*   *   *   *   *

Sam and Riley had been scheduled for a civilian rescue mission. They were briefed and prepped and ready to go when the command came from on high: priorities had changed, and they were needed elsewhere immediately. Information was need-to-know, and apparently they didn’t need to know much. They were given coordinates deep in enemy territory and ordered to get there as soon as possible, find the survivor there, and bring him back in one piece, all while maintaining complete radio silence.

At the designated site, they landed on an outcrop of rocks halfway up a mountain. Their contact was nowhere to be seen. Sam cursed and started devising a search plan, but then Riley nodded at something over his left shoulder. Sam turned and saw a man staggering out of a crevice in the rocks a few feet away.

“You the retrieval team?” their survivor barked, voice demanding even as he swayed on his feet, sweat dripping down his dark forehead.

“Yes, sir!”

Sam and Riley rushed to meet him, assessing the visible damage and reaching for the necessary materials as they went. From the way the man was carrying himself he clearly had a broken arm and two–no, three–broken fingers. Riley started splinting the arm, while Sam did his best to bandage the cuts. The man was covered in lacerations; most of them were shallow, but Sam counted seven with the potential for heavy bleeding _—_ the one on his leg looked the deepest, but the slices across his left eye were likely to leave lasting damage.

“What the hell do you two think you’re doing? They could be here any goddamn minute! We need to get gone, now!”

“All due respect, sir,” Sam replied. “It took us over an hour to fly here from base. Adding your weight is likely to double that flight time. This mission will be wasted if you bleed out on us halfway home.”

“All due respect, _son_ , our lives will be wasted if they find us.” He was interrupted by the sound of gunfire. “Oh, fuck. There they are.”

They all pressed themselves back against the rocks. Riley laid down suppressive fire while Sam strapped the man into a harness hooked to his wing pack. The partners briefly made eye contact and nodded. Sam wrapped one arm around his passenger to steady him, and the men fired their jetpacks, rolling and dodging to avoid the enemy fire. Sam felt a bullet pierce his shoulder just before his wings extended into position. He checked for Riley behind him, adjusted his grip on the passenger, and settled in for a long flight.

Most of the flight was almost boring. Sam’s passenger passed out within minutes. The bullet wound in Sam’s shoulder was a through and through _—_ painful but manageable. The men flew high and avoided populated areas. Sam was just thinking they were home free when they came around the side of a mountain and stumbled into a hot zone.

Sam’s passenger startled awake, grabbed a gun from Sam’s harness, and began firing down at the enemy. Sam banked to fly higher, away from the battle but didn’t move quickly enough: he felt a bullet graze his hip and a jolt as another bullet cut through one of the harness straps. He grabbed his passenger around the chest before his weight could break the rest of the straps. The man kept firing until they were completely out of range.

Sam saw Riley dive down in front of them, taking advantage of his greater mobility to lay down more defensive fire. Sam flew on, pushing his wings to the edge of their capacity. He knew Riley would follow. Between the gun fire, the explosions, and the wind he couldn’t hear him, but he trusted his partner to stay close.

Then there was another explosion, much closer and louder than the rest. Sam felt the shock wave roll into him and splatter him with warm, wet debris. He could feel it clinging to his legs and dripping down the back of his neck. Some part of him knew at that moment what had happened, but there was nothing he could do, so he just kept flying.

The rest of the trip felt like an eternity. The passenger stashed his gun and held onto Sam’s harness as best he could with his good arm, but he was still largely dead weight. Sam held onto him with both arms, gritting his teeth against the pain in his injured shoulder. More than once he worried that they wouldn’t make it.

When Sam landed in the middle of the base he barely managed to release the last straps connecting them together before they both collapsed. Med teams rushed out to treat them. Sam wiped a hand across the back of his neck and it came back bloody with bits of shredded bone and muscle, the last remains of his partner.

He didn’t cry. He just shook silently as he watched the medics carry away the man he and Riley had rescued.

The mystery man on a secret mission, who had called for a last minute extraction from deep behind enemy lines and gotten the best the Air Force had to offer.

The man whose face had starred in Sam’s nightmares but whose name he’d never known.

The man whose damaged eye had become his trademark, who hadn’t died then and wasn’t dead now.

Nick Fury.

At least Sam finally knew who Riley had died for.

*   *   *   *   *

“On your left.” Steve’s hoarse voice drew Sam’s attention immediately.

Riley died for Fury.

Fury found Steve.

And Steve? Steve gave Sam something to live for.


End file.
